My father’s eyes were a little wet by the time he finished speaking, but it wasn’t the kind of sadness that weighed him down. It was softer than that. He looked content in a way that told me he had made his peace with the life he had lived after his own father passed, with the choices he had made and the roads he had walked.

  He cleared his throat and shifted his weight, the moment passing without ceremony. Then he looked at me again, his expression deliberately lighter, like he was opening a window after a long conversation.

  “So,” he said, “you wanted to get started on collecting your cores?”

  I nodded.

  “We’ll have to see the quartermaster,” he continued. “There should be some available. We clear the Tin and Copper zones regularly, just to make sure they don’t get overrun. It also gives the dungeon somewhere to push its excess mana instead of trying to expand. It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps.”

  He spoke the way someone did who had explained this many times before, not lecturing, just stating how things were.

  “That means we purge a lot of monsters,” he went on. “Most of the time it’s routine. Every so often, we get lucky and recover usable cores or other rare drops that didn’t shatter in the process.”

  He shrugged, casual but confident. “I don’t know if we have any in stock right now. But if we do, I can afford a few with my new salary. And I’ve got more than enough guild contribution points to cover the rest without it being an issue.”

  I nodded again, feeling a quiet certainty settle in my chest.

  He bent slightly and lifted me without effort, settling me on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. My mother fell into step beside him at once, her hand resting lightly against his back as we left the hall together.

  From up there, the world felt broader. Steadier. The sounds of the hall faded behind us as we moved through the corridors, unhurried, the stone beneath my father’s boots familiar and solid. It felt like there was nowhere else we needed to be.

  The quartermaster’s office was separated from the corridor by a waist-high metal fence. Beyond it sat a heavy desk, scarred by years of use, and behind that, reinforced doors that I assumed led to a vault. The air smelled faintly of oil and metal.

  A man was already seated behind the desk. He was broad and rotund, his build suggesting strength as much as comfort. His head was bald, smooth as polished stone, but his face was dominated by one of the most magnificent beards I had ever seen. It was thick, carefully groomed, and clearly maintained with pride. Every line of it seemed deliberate.

  “Captain Izem,” the man said easily, looking up with a practiced glance. “What can I help you with?”

  I barely heard him.

  I stared at the beard.

  It reminded me, painfully, of what I had lost.

  I leaned down slightly from my perch and asked, “Dad, can you grow a beard?”

  He snorted, the sound sharp and immediate. “No hair has ever touched this beautiful face,” he said, pride thick in his voice. “Nor that of any man in my family, for that matter.”

  My mother laughed softly and reached up to stroke his cheek, her expression fond, as if this were an undeniable virtue rather than a tragic flaw.

  Something inside me broke.

  I wept internally.

  I loved them far too much to say anything aloud, but as I looked once more at the quartermaster’s glorious beard, I quietly accepted that my chances of ever growing one myself in this life were growing slimmer by the moment. The thought settled in my mind with the weight of an unavoidable truth.

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  The quartermaster cleared his throat, snapping me out of my quiet internal spiral.

  “So,” he said, looking back to my father, “Captain, what can I help you with?”

  My father winced slightly. “Ah. Right. Sorry about that Tim” He shifted me a little on his shoulder before continuing. “My son has joined the Adventurer’s Guild. He’s a Tin core. I was wondering if we had any Tin cores in stock to help him with his advancement, and if you could let me know if we receive any more in the future.”

  I looked down at him and said quietly, “I really appreciate this, Dad.”

  Tim the quartermaster nodded once. “All right. Give me a moment.” He stood with a low grunt and reached for a cane leaning against the desk. It looked less like a walking aid and more like a shortened wizard’s staff, carved with intricate patterns and capped with a crystal head.

  I felt a flicker of recognition. In my last life, one of my most powerful staffs had been fashioned the same way, a cane in stature for my later years, when full-length staffs had grown too heavy for my hands.

  He walked with a noticeable limp as he made his way into the back room.

  I leaned down and asked, “Why hasn’t anyone healed him?”

  My father grimaced. “Tim doesn’t trust healers,” he said quietly. “Since the Church of Magic and the Church of Healers started following that new way, he says things have changed. He doesn’t trust their administration anymore. He could get it fixed easily if he wanted to. He just doesn’t.”

  He paused, then added, “He’s a nice guy. Once you get to know him.”

  “And a bit of a bastard if you don't,” my father finished.

  My mother immediately smacked his shoulder. “Izem. Not in front of your son.”

  She looked up at me, her expression firm but not unkind. “And I won’t have those words coming out of your mouth either.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t planned on it, at least not in front of her. Still, I noted how it sounded in my new language, rhythmic, easy, the kind of word that rolled off the tongue in a pleasant manner even if it was an insult.

  Tim came back slowly; a small wooden box cradled in one hand. He moved with care, leaning heavily on his cane as he crossed the room, the metal tip clicking softly against the stone floor with each step. When he reached the desk, he turned, lowered himself into his chair with obvious effort, and the wood creaked in protest beneath his weight.

  “You’re in luck,” he said, setting the box down between us. He rested one hand on it for a moment, as if confirming it was really there. “We got another one just last week. Almost missed it in the logs, too.”

  He slid the box across the desk toward my father. “There were three in there.”

  My father didn’t even open it. He took the box without ceremony and passed it straight to me, his attention already shifting back to the stack of papers in front of him. “Go on,” he said. “Take these. I’ll finish signing the paperwork.”

  I held the box carefully and lifted the lid.

  Inside were three small cores, each tin-colored and faintly sparkling, cut into rough diamond shapes that caught the light as I moved them. They weren’t large, but they felt heavy with possibility. Three pieces. Almost a third of the way to my goal, handed to me just like that.

  It would save an incredible amount of time. Months, maybe more.

  The realization made my chest tighten. “Thank you, Dad,” I said, and I meant it with everything I had.

  He nodded absently, eyes scanning the forms as he filled in the final lines with practiced ease.

  I hesitated, the question forming before I could stop it. “How much would one of these usually cost?”

  He didn’t even look up. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s a gift.”

  “All right,” I said, and I truly meant to leave it there.

  “About ten thousand freds apiece,” Tim said, his voice calm and utterly unhelpful. “More, if they went to auction.”

  I froze, the number hitting me harder than I expected.

  My mother shot Tim a sharp, unmistakable look.

  Tim glanced back at her, unrepentant. “What?”

  She clicked her tongue but said nothing, folding her arms instead.

  My father sighed and finally looked up from the desk. “Tim. Why would you tell him that?”

  “Because he asked,” Tim replied easily. “And because he’s a kid.”

  He tilted his head slightly in my direction, studying me. “Yeah, yeah, I know he’s a reincarnator. Talks all proper and everything. But he still looks like a kid. And we both know being a reincarnator doesn’t mean much half the time.”

  My father snorted quietly. “Fair enough.”

  “Think of Billy,” Tim continued. “The librarian. If we hadn’t stuck him in the library, what would he actually be able to do?”

  My father shook his head. “Didn’t he say he didn’t even know how to talk for nearly thirty years?”

  “Yeah,” Tim said. “World he came from didn’t even have a written language. Couldn’t read, couldn’t write. Now he loves books. Loves the idea of sharing knowledge. Spends all day cataloging like it’s the most important thing in the world. Funny how that works.”

  “That’s true,” my father said thoughtfully. “Does he still sleep in the hole he dug?”

  “Oh yeah,” Tim said with a chuckle. “Refuses to sleep in the bunks. Says the wolf pack might get him if he’s not covered up. No idea what that’s about, but you know he was one of the really old ones. Brings a lot of strange habits with him.”

  “And he wanted to be a defender,” my father said.

  “For some reason,” Tim agreed. He shook his head, amusement clear in his voice. “No way anyone’s putting him out there. Guy’d get himself killed the moment he stepped outside the door.”